


Pub Crawl

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Dark and Stormy Night, Gen, Halloween, pub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 22:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5066428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pub seemed like a godsend, a respite from the raging storm. Little did Napoleon and Illya realize...<br/>Gen, but can be read either way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pub Crawl

 

The rain came down in buckets, in torrents, propelled nearly sideways by a savage wind that shook the trees lining the Boston Post Road, and rattled the ancient windowpanes of The Lamb and Scythe Tavern.

Napoleon and Illya tumbled through the door, blue with cold and drenched to the bone. As they stood there shivering, the wind seized the heavy oak portal from Illya's hand, slamming it open against the shingles and nearly tearing it off its hinges. Resigned to his fate, he stepped back out into the storm and wrestled it shut again.

The tavern was dark and silent, the tables empty. The only sign of life was the middle-aged bartender reading a newspaper behind the counter, and the fire popping and crackling in the ash-scarred hearth.

“Sit anywhere,” the bartender said, stating the obvious.

The men chose a table near the fire, and cast off their sodden jackets. Napoleon stripped off his tie, and used a half-dozen napkins from the dispenser on the table to wipe his face. Illya kicked his squelching shoes and socks off, and lifted his toes toward the fire. His eyes closed in rapture.

Don't get too comfortable,” Napoleon warned. “We're due in Boston tonight.”

“It might be better to wait until the storm passes,” Illya answered drowsily. “The wind nearly blew our car off the road back there. I would hate to end up in a ditch for our troubles.”

“I suppose you've got a point.” He sighed. “Waverly's not going to like it.”

“Waverly is not driving.”

The bartender, a plump, cheerful man, approached their table, wiping his hands on his apron. “Sure is a gullywhomper out there. Came outa nowhere, it did. Gonna be a wild night, mark my words.”

“Swell,” Napoleon replied, feeling anything but. He was bone-tired, sleep deprived, and to top it off, he felt a cold coming on. His fondest wish at the moment was for a hot shower and a few hours of uninterrupted shuteye.

“– gettin' awful chilly, too. I swear, temperature's dropped a good twenty degrees in the last hour. Cold enough to freeze a witch's tit. Wouldn't be surprised if there was ice on those maple trees come morning.”

Napoleon sneezed.

“– fool would be on the road on a night like this. Tree limbs fallin' everywhere, accidents, black ice –”

He willed the bartender to stop talking.

“ – worse in the city, though. All that traffic gettin' snarled up at the roundabouts. And power outages. Don't get me started on those –“

He sneezed again, twice in rapid succession. His throat felt scratchy, and his head ached. He longed for a king-sized bottle of Extra-Strength Bufferin. _I hope it's not the flu,_ he thought dismally.

“– 'course the weather's always a bit quirky around this time of year. Why, I remember one Halloween –”

“I'll have a scotch, neat,” Napoleon interrupted before the fellow had a chance to launch into another pointless monologue. “Make it a double. Dewar's, if you have it.”

“Comin' right up. And you, sir?”

Illya shook his mop of blond hair, sending droplets of water in all directions. “A bottle of vodka. I do not care what kind.”

“Back in two shakes of a lamb's tail.” The bartender sauntered off, whistling.

The tavern was underwhelming, to say the least. The oak-paneled walls seemed dull and careworn, and there were signs of woodworm along the floor and baseboard. The tables were scarred with countless nicks and scratches - Napoleon thought there would probably be chewing gum on the underside of his chair if he cared to look. A water stain was spreading across a portion of the plaster ceiling, water drip-dripping into a metal bucket in the corner. Grinning Jack-o-lanterns and ghoulish, candlelit skulls decorated the tables and mantelpiece, the only notes of color in the dingy room.

“At least it's dry," he said.

Illya glanced at the empty tables without enthusiasm. “Not very popular with the locals, apparently. I hope the food is edible.”

Outside the tavern the wind howled and shrieked, snapping tree limbs and shaking loose the last vestiges of Fall color. Lightning flashed, illuminating for an instant the swinging tavern sign with its image of a scythe suspended above a gamboling white lamb. The clap of thunder that followed was so loud, it rattled the glasses on the bar. “'Twas a dark and stormy night,'” Napoleon murmured, and sneezed again.

“Must you quote Lord Lytton every time there is a storm?" Illya grumbled. "Shakespeare would be an infinitely better choice. 'Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks. Rage, blow, You cataracts and hurricanoes!' Or Milton: 'With vast Typhoean rage rend up both rocks and hills, and ride the air in whirlwind!'”

“You're just hungry. You get grumpy when you miss a meal.”

The bartender reappeared with their drinks, saving Illya the necessity of a reply. “Now then, how's about somethin' to eat?”

Illya's countenance brightened. “Is there a menu?”

“'Fraid not. My cook called in sick today, so all I got to offer is a pot of leftover chili. It's awful good chili, though, I will say. Five alarm. Old family recipe. Why, back in the old country, my great-great-grandpa –”

“Chili sounds great,” Napoleon interjected quickly. “Two bowls.”

“Comes with fresh bread. Homemade, warm and crusty. That okay with you fellas?”

“Perfect,” Illya grinned, a rare show of good cheer.

The bartender departed. The men sat back, sipping their drinks.

“Is it my imagination,” Napoleon shivered, “or is it getting chilly in here?”

Illya yawned. "Not that I noticed." He wiggled his bare toes experimentally. “You must be sitting in a draft.”

“I've already moved my chair twice.” He shifted to the right again, but it didn't help.

“You have been sneezing ever since we left Greenwich, Napoleon. Maybe you're coming down with something.”

"I hope not. I've got tickets for the Met this weekend. Leontyn P-Price in  _C-Cleopatra_." Napoleon slid closer to the fire. He wrapped his arms around his chest. “Look, I can see my breath.” He exhaled a puff of icy mist.

Illya sat up, staring intently. “Do that again.” There was no mistaking the tension in his voice.

Napoleon repeated the demonstration. “See? I told you it was getting colder in here. The thermostat must be broken. Or maybe the power went out –”

“It is something far worse than a broken thermostat, I fear.”

“Worse? What could possibly be -?”

"We need to go." Illya jammed his bare feet into his shoes.

"Go? But we just got here. We haven't even had our dinner yet."

“Please, Napoleon, do not argue. I have seen manifestations of this sort before. Years ago, in California.”

“'Manifestations?' Oh, good grief! Please tell me this isn't another one of your gypsy superstitions!”

“Laugh later, after I have saved your life. We need to go - now, before it is too –”

A blood-curdling shriek pierced the air. The candles flickered and went out. The fire died.

“Christ! What _was_ that?” 

“Nothing human.”

A terror of sounds erupted, filling the darkness – wails and howls and a horrible, earth-deep rumbling. In the distance, they heard voices chanting.

 The men sprang to their feet, drawing their weapons. The hair on Napoleon's arms stood on end. “What the hell is going on?”

“Hell _is_ what is going on,” Illya answered as the ground shook beneath them. He inched toward the door, pulling Napoleon with him.

The walls of the room seemed to be wavering, melting. As the men watched, the floorboards cracked and split asunder, revealing granite depths shrouded in darkness. The exposed pit grew wider by the second, until Napoleon thought it would swallow the room. Ghostly apparitions began to emerge from its maw, a phantasmic army of goblins, ghouls and unspeakable monstrosities. The creatures advanced upon the men, howling and slavering with hideous glee.

“Napoleon, come _on!_ ”

“Right behind you!” They tumbled over tables and chairs in their haste to reach the exit.

“Going so soon?” inquired the bartender. “I won't hear of it.” He stepped between the men and the door, smiling as he brandished a long and very lethal-looking scythe. "My customers are hungry, and I've promised them a feast."

Napoleon eyed the man's weapon; it looked remarkably sharp and efficient. "Let me guess - we're on tonight's menu?"

"The main course, in fact." He chuckled. "Like lambs to the slaughter."

"We'll have to see about that."

The agents shifted into a combat stance, prepared to fight their way out. “I'm pretty sure 'Tactics For Defeating a Demon Army' wasn't covered in Survival School,” Napoleon muttered as the monstrous legion advanced.

Illya smiled the smile of a man prepared to die.

At that moment, the tavern's heavy oak door flew off its hinges. It soared away on the wind.

“Did ya miss me?” the blonde girl smiled, raising her crossbow.

The demon army halted in its tracks, and an uneasy silence fell. "Slayer? Oh, crap!" The bartender's smile dropped from his face.

Napoleon estimated the girl to be in her late teens or early twenties. 'Perky' described her to a tee, he thought. She was flanked, military-style, by an odd assortment of companions: a dark-haired boy, a redheaded girl in a kitschy flowered sweater, a platinum-haired punk in a leather coat, and a tweedy, older man with spectacles. The man was reading aloud from _Bertram's Field Guide to Demons and Creatures of the Hellmouth._

“ _Infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis ad congregatio secta diabolica,”_ he chanted. _“Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos! Te rogamus, audi nos!”_

“Ooh, Giles,” the redhead smiled sweetly, “I can feel it working already. It's all 'pow, pow, take that demons!' Can you feel it Buffy? I love it when Giles goes all chant-y!”

Buffy fluffed her lovely blonde hair. “Catchy rhythm, easy to dance to. Works for me.”

“ _Infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis ad congregatio secta diabolica -”_  

“Way to go with the Latin, Giles-ie,” the boy said.

“Yes, well, I do try –”

“You're such a suck-up, Xander,” the punk in the leather coat sneered. “C'mon already! Time's a'wasting! Let's kick some demon ass!”

“Down, Spike.” 

In Napoleon's mind, the need to protect the young Innocents overwhelmed all else. "You kids get out of here! We'll cover you!" 

The blonde girl shrugged. "Thanks, but we're good." 

"No, miss - uh, Buffy - you don't understand. Those are demons in there! Real, honest-to-god demons! You and your friends are in terrible danger!"

"Demons. Danger. Got it." 

"But -"

“She gets it," the boy named Xander echoed. “What _you_ don't get is that Buffy is The Slayer. The One and Only. The Buffinator.”

"I don't -"

Buffy raised her crossbow. "You guys should probably go. This place is gonna come down in a minute."

The bartender blanched and retreated behind the bar.

She turned to face the demon army. “Okay, which one of you undead creepies wants to re-die first?”

The demons surged forward, roaring their fury, and the battle for the Hellmouth began. The next minutes passed in a blur. Monsters attacked and fell in a tangle of limbs and claws and teeth. Some exploded into clouds of black dust when the blonde girl and her friends stabbed them with their pointy sticks. When it was over, the floor was littered with an uncanny variety of mostly unrecognizable demon body parts, The pit in the floor was gone, a section of splintered floorboards the only sign that it had ever existed. The bartender was nowhere to be seen.

Buffy grinned. “Well, that was fun!” She turned to Napoleon and Illya, extending her hand. “Hey, thanks for the assist. If you're ever in Sunnydale, California, we could use you two in the Scooby Gang.”

"'Scooby Gang?'" Illya and Napoleon traded puzzled looks.

"Can we go home now?" redheaded Willow asked. "I need to start studying for the Biology midterm."

"Midterms aren't for another six weeks," Xander reminded her.

"I know, but I like to start worrying early."

"It's time we were on our way, Buffy," the tweedy professor added with a touch of urgency. "The time portal is starting to close, and if we don't get through, we may be stuck here indefinitely in - uh - what year is this?"

Napoleon stared. "Don't you know?"

"I haven't a clue." 

"It's October 29th,1967."

"Really?" The professor's expression brightened. "As I recall, 1967 was a pretty groovy year. Quite rad, actually." He flipped up the collar of his jacket and struck a jaunty pose. "I suppose staying here wouldn't be so bad -"

"Come on, Giles. Time to go." Buffy linked arms with the professor, and the teenagers piled out the now doorless exit, chattering happily. As Napoleon and Illya watched, they disappeared into the night. Illya turned, and began digging through the rubble in search of his socks. 

Napoleon surveyed the damage to the tavern, and assessed it a total loss. "Well, _that_ was something to tell the grandkids."

"You don't have any grandchildren, Napoleon."

"I might, someday." He sighed. “They're not going to believe this back in New York.” 

“Let us agree not to tell them.”

“Deal.” Napoleon sniffed experimentally. “At least my cold has cleared up. Nothing like a little vigorous exercise to clear the sinuses." He donned his sodden jacket, and made a half-hearted attempt to smooth out the wrinkles. "What would you say to a deluxe suite at the Boston Hilton tonight? We could order Room Service, maybe a nice bottle of wine -”

Mr. Waverly would never approve such an extravagance.”

“My treat.”

“Oh, well, in that case -”

As the tavern's rain-soaked ceiling fell with a crash, they stepped outside into the raging storm.

*/*/*/

 


End file.
